Many Days Fall Away
by MissMollyBloom
Summary: Established Sherlolly. Moriarty gives Sherlock an impossible choice – one which sets the course of his life and the lives of the people he loves for decades to come.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: I've been reading a lot of Diana Gabaldon's Outlander series. While this fic does NOT have a sassy time-travelling WWII combat nurse, nor does it have a dashing Scottish Highlander, I was inspired by something that happens later in the series when fate conspires to keep two characters apart for a prolonged period of time.

So, fair warning, there will be angst. But there will be light at the end of the tunnel. I hope!

Please forgive any typos - I'm desperate for a Beta reader. Please contact me here or on Tumblr (MissMollyBloom) if you're interested.

And the title is lifted from a line from Pompeii by Bastille. Sort of.

* * *

There was no way he could have known when he woke up that morning that the events to come that day would chart a course not only for his life, but the lives of his loved ones for decades to come. There was no warning, no chance to take extra note of his last few hours as Sherlock Holmes. If he had some word, some prophecy or foreknowledge, he would have paid more attention, would have etched each second into the very foundations of his mind palace. As it was, only brief snatches of the day remained. These moments which seemed simple, everyday, even mundane at the time would be replayed in his memory over and over, warming him on the nights when those memories were all that remained of his former life.

That morning he woke before Molly – something which rarely happened, especially on the days she worked. She was curled up on her side, facing the window. Her untamed hair fanned out over the pillow and Sherlock threaded a strand through his fingers. Hair like golden threads, according to a line he half-remembered from Shakespeare – a Sonnet, or maybe one of his epic poems.

He checked the time. It was just after 5am. Molly's alarm wasn't due for another half an hour. Sherlock smirked, thinking of how best to use that time, and moved closer, wrapping his body around hers. Now sharing a pillow, he buried his nose in her hair and inhaled the intoxicating fragrance. He could smell the vanilla of her shampoo, faded from her shower yesterday morning, mixed with the unmistakable scent which lingered in the sheets after their evening activities.

Their relationship was an accidental success. He'd never dreamed that another human being could stand his eccentricities, but Molly seemed to love him all the more for them. She didn't mind that on some evenings when she joined him at Baker Street, he woudn't acknowledge her arrival, let alone her existence for hours. She was happy to sit at his side even if his body showed no awareness of her presence. He guessed she didn't mind because she knew that at some point in the evening they would retire to bed and he would show her precisely how aware of her his body was. That very same awareness he knew was now pressing against the soft roundness of her backside.

He had mistakenly believed that the body was mere transport, that its needs could be ignored or supressed. And while he could control his sleep and his appetite for a time, he couldn't last forever. So too, it turned out, he couldn't ignore his attraction to the petite pathologist indefinitely.

It happened one night after she joined him at a crime scene at some ungodly hour – or so she'd said when he woke her up with his call. He had begun to rely on her more and more, particularly in such situations when he knew a similar call to John would be met with, at best, a sleep-slurred "fuck off" or, at worst, the long repeated ringing of a silenced phone. John had other priorities – Mary and Joanna – Molly, however, did not.

The scene that night had him frustrated. He knew there was something not right about the body, something he was missing, but he couldn't see what it was – like an encoded message without a Rosetta Stone. If he could just find it, he knew the case would unravel.

Molly sensed it too. They spent hours together scouring the scene for any minute detail to no avail. As a last resort, they had the body taken to Bart's where Molly performed a forensic examination. Once Molly tested a skin sample, she discovered that the body must have been kept at low temperature in an attempt to obscure the time of death. Armed with that knowledge, Sherlock knew one witness's alibi no longer held up and was therefore the killer.

Relieved, Sherlock intended to kiss Molly on the cheek. He didn't know what caused him to deviate from his usual custom, instead placing a firm, closed-mouth kiss on her lips. Molly's eyes widened with shock. Keen to deflect any tension, Sherlock asked if she'd like to grab some breakfast as they'd now worked through the night.

Sherlock was silent as they walked together to the café down the road from Bart's. He knew Molly was attempting the diffuse any awkwardness in her own way – by compounding it with chatter about something. He caught a few words like blueberry, ricotta, frittata, and presumed she was discussing the menu. Sherlock had other words floating unbidden in his mind – soft, sweet, tempting – thoughts about lips he had once foolishly described as "too small".

He'd made a decision, then, fuelled by the lack of sleep and the adrenaline of a case well-solved.

"I don't want to go to the café," he blurted out.

Molly stopped, looking at him in a vain attempt to hide her disappointment.

"Ok. I mean, I understand, you're tired and –"

"No."

"No?"

"I want you to make me breakfast."

When they arrived at Molly's flat, Sherlock lingered in the entranceway, slowly removing his coat while Molly busied herself in the kitchen. Her nerves were written on her face and in the way she bit her bottom lip while she searched through the cupboards. Her fingers drummed absently on the doors. Her hair, freed from the confines of her usual ponytail cascaded around her face while she bent to check the difference between plain and self-raising flour.

Without realising it, Sherlock had joined her in the kitchen. Molly, still fixated on the hunt for food, hadn't noticed how close he was standing behind her until she turned and bumped her nose into his chest. She started to move away, stammering through an apology which was silenced by his lips on hers.

At first, Molly squirmed against him, expressing her shock and confusion at the turn of events. But when Sherlock ran his hands through her hair and began pulling closer to him, she acquiesced, her body yielding to his possession of her as he pushed her back towards the cupboards.

Her lips were as soft as he remembered from their brief kiss in the lab, but he didn't treat them softly. He crushed his lips into hers, showing her the desire he had been denying himself since the night he stayed in her apartment after faking his death – when she stood in the doorway of the spare room, showing such concern for him that all he wanted to do was to invite her into bed with him.

But he didn't.

And when he returned and she was engaged, he cursed every neuron in his brain which caused such a massive miscalculation. He could have had her – and almost lost her.

But now, there was nothing to stop him claiming her as his own as he kissed her, held her, and began shamelessly grinding himself against her.

Molly was the first to break away; her lips, raw from his. He feared for a moment that she might not want to continue, wasn't ready to have him, or worse, had decided that he wasn't worth having at all. But Molly only said one word.

"Bedroom."

It was the first time he'd ever had sex without drugs clouding his perception. Sober, he could take it all in – the feel of her skin on his once the last barrier of their clothing had been shed, the breathless moan she made at the height of her pleasure, the look on her face in that endless moment after everything fell silent.

Later, as their heartrates returned to normal, Molly ran her fingers through his sparse, pale chest hair and muttered something he swore sounded like an apology. He asked her to repeat it.

"It's just, I'm sorry if- I mean – It's been a while," she stammered.

Sherlock couldn't help smiling at the irony. "I'd wager it's been longer for me."

Molly sat up, unable to hide her curiosity from him. "How long?"

"Ten-"

"It's been ten months for me as well." The look on his face silenced her.

"Years." It was a fact. He wasn't embarrassed by it. And judging from the expression on Molly's face, she was impressed that she was the one he broke his vow of celibacy for.

"Ten years?" She smirked.

"Yep."

"You're saying the last time you had sex, Tony Blair was PM?"

"Well, I wasn't thinking about it at the time."

"And Christopher Eccleston was the Doctor."

"Who?"

"Nevermind." Feeling the chill in the air, she pulled the sheet up to cover herself. "So?" She asked, failing to keep her tone as casual.

"So what?" He decided to try playing dumb for once. A first time for everything.

"What did you think?" She wasn't searching for affirmation, rather, a confirmation in words of all he had expressed with his body moments earlier.

He didn't give her words. But he did give her his body, again.

Once he had given in to his desire for her, he couldn't stop. Such was his appetite that Molly joked he was making up for lost time.

Time was certainly on his mind that morning – or, more precisely, the fact that he had less than half an hour before Molly's alarm would steal her away from his bed. He woke her up with soft kisses on the nape of her neck and his hand taking full advantage of the fact she wasn't wearing anything the soft, worn fabric of his favourite grey t-shirt.

Molly's soft moan made it clear that she appreciated the ways he'd chosen to bring her from sleep to consciousness. It didn't take long for her to take full advantage of his desire for her.

Afterwards, Molly's face radiated the warm glow of exertion mixed with contentment. Her skin shined with a thin layer of sweat from the warmth of their joined bodies. She sighed, closing her eyes and smiling. He loved that he could make her smile like that.

Sherlock traced the line of her face, his fingers continuing down her neck, along her clavicle, stopping to cup her left breast. His thumb grazed her nipple and Molly let out a sound of pleasure mixed with pain, pulling out of his grasp.

"Just a bit sensitive." She said in answer to his unspoken query.

"I'll be gentle," he said, and bent to place a small, soft, kiss here his hand had been before continuing to place kisses down her body.

The shrill sound of Molly's alarm stopped Sherlock from reaching his intended goal.

"Christ, it's 5:30!" Molly was across the room in an instant. All thoughts of the morning's activities had vanished. "I've got a meeting in less than an hour," she explained as she buttoned up the crumpled front of yesterday's blouse.

"Why don't you shower here?"

"No point, I don't have any clean clothes."

"Well, you really should fix that, Molly."

"I suppose I could bring an overnight bag when I stay– " His look cut her off. "Oh."

"Do you want to?"

"Do I want to do what, Sherlock?" Molly asked in a tone and with a smile that let him know how much she was enjoying toying with him.

"Molly Hooper, will you move in to Baker Street with me?"

She said her yes with a kiss and with a body that melted into his. All urgency to leave for work was lost as their bodies united to seal the new phase of their relationship.

When they finished, there was no time to bask in the moment. Molly quickly pulled on her stockings, zipped up her skirt, slipped on her shoes and headed for the door. Sherlock followed her, still naked, with the sheet wrapped around him for the sake of the cold rather than any thoughts of modesty.

On his way through the kitchen, Sherlock grabbed a crumpet from the tray Mrs Hudson had brought up for them. He took a bit before offering another one to Molly. She shook her head.

"I've been a bit off breakfast for the last few days."

Sherlock shrugged. "More for me."

Molly laughed. "Do you know I used to think you ran on coffee and cigarettes? That's all I ever saw you have. I never suspected that Sherlock Holmes had such a ferocious appetite."

"And not just for food," he said in his deepest baritone, and kissed her soundly.

"I really have to go," she said as she extracted herself from the kiss. "Come by later?"

"Definitely."

Neither of them knew that when she left Baker Street that morning, it was for the last time.

Later that day, after scanning through his emails and finding nothing worth investigating, Sherlock found himself picturing his new life with Molly. There were already traces of her scattered throughout his flat – a pathology journal next to the lounge, her favourite slippers next to his bed, feminine hygiene products in the top drawer in the bathroom.

Soon his space would be hers, too.

Years ago, the thought of sharing oneself as he had with Molly would have paralysed him with fear. Now, he found himself excited to see the changes she would bring as her life truly became shared with his.

He has always said that being alone protected him – but his life never reflected that. John, Mary, Mrs Hudson, they were all part of what enabled him to survive.

But Molly was something different. Molly helped him live.

He was different with her – even down to everyday things like food. He'd always regarded the needs of the body to be a necessary evil – he'd only ever eat because he knew that he had to. He didn't care what food it was or what it tasted like. But with Molly, he'd stop, savour food, even have an opinion about what they ate. Even down to the crumpet he ate that morning, or the bacon she cooked him the day before, or the frittata they'd shared at Speedy's the day before that, or-

Sherlock stopped mid-thought as something on the edge of his consciousness signalled an unfamiliar connection.

Molly hadn't eaten breakfast in three days. This morning she didn't want a plain crumpet. Yesterday, she said the bacon had an odd smell and threw hers in the bin. He didn't notice anything wrong with it. The frittata they'd shared the day before was all his after she'd only had one bite.

Odd, but nothing to worry about, Sherlock assured himself. Probably just a virus.

The text alert on his phone stopped his thoughts from developing further. It was Molly.

 _Don't come in. Was just sick. Leaving soon._

Sherlock tried not to imagine the indignity of losing one's stomach contents involuntarily.

She probably had a bug – or food poisoning.

But she hadn't been eating lately – certainly not in the mornings.

And her sense of smell was heightened.

And she had been complaining of headaches.

And her breasts seemed slightly larger and more sensitive that morning – but he assumed he was just imagining things – after all, his perception of her breast size had never been the most accurate reflection of reality.

But she was on the pill. And she took it religiously at 7am every morning.

But she did have a sinus infection a month or so ago. She had been on antibiotics.

And he couldn't remember the last time she had her period.

"Christ."

He cursed himself for taking so long. If it were anyone else the answer would have come to him almost instantly. But with her, he was clouded, like someone with myopia looking at the world without their glasses.

But now it was all too clear.

Molly was pregnant.


	2. Chapter 2

She would never be able to tell her son this story. Once he was old enough, she found herself hoping that he would never ask about the day she discovered she was pregnant. She pleaded with a God she couldn't help believing in that he would grant her one request: that her precious boy would never think to ask how his father reacted when she told him the news.

It wasn't a pretty story – in fact, much of that day was pretty damn ugly.

Of course, none of that ugliness occurred until after she had left Baker Street that morning. Despite all that would happen in the years to come, Molly would often find herself remembering the way Sherlock had woken her up that morning. The ghost of his soft lips on her neck that morning would visit her, unbidden. Despite any anger she would end up feeling towards that impossible man, for years she could close her eyes and the determined look he had that morning. It was the same passion he showed her every time since that first night in her flat.

There were much worse ways to wake up.

Despite the way the day began, Molly soon found herself in the midst of a horror day at work. Her intern had set the incubators ten degrees too low, ruining their blood cultures. Her computer crashed, destroying two weeks of records in the process – the electronic copies, that was. At least she had paper backups, but she dreaded the hours of unpaid overtime she'd have to log to retype all her notes. To top things off, she had been feeling queesy all morning and by 10am, her body had simply given up fighting it. Molly nearly missed throwing up her stomach contents in the middle of the lab.

As she washed up, Molly wondered what she had eaten to cause such a reaction – surely it couldn't be the small bag of crisps she'd half-finished. But crisps were the only thing she had eaten in the last two days. For some reason she'd grown adverse to almost everything else. Remembering her medical training, she checked her recent memory for any other symptoms. She'd had a dizzy spell on the tube that morning and even now she didn't want to be standing for too long. She'd also had a headache since arriving at Bart's that morning. Reviewing the evidence, she reasoned that she must have caught some bug. It didn't help that she had been cramping some days despite the fact that her period was due –

– when was her period due again?

Returning to her office, Molly thought she'd best check her diary. Not that she was the kind of woman who kept record of that information. Instead, she remembered that the last time coincided with Sherlock and John taking a week in Edinburgh to consult on a particularly gruesome murder-suicide (which Sherlock insisted - correctly - was actually a double murder). While Sherlock was away, Molly had a much needed girls' night with Meena, whom she hadn't caught up with in months. It was that entry which Molly was flipping back through her diary for, expecting to find it to be three, or even four weeks ago.

It was seven.

Molly was never late.

Nausea. Vomiting. Food Aversions. Dizziness. Headaches. Mild cramping. Missed period.

Textbook pregnancy symptoms.

She sunk down into her chair, the realisation, and all its requisite implications weighing on her.

"Fuck."

They had never spoken about children, in fact, that morning was the closest they had ever come to discussing their future. She didn't mind – there were a great many things she had accepted would never be part of a relationship with Sherlock Holmes, and a nice country cottage with a white picket fence was one of them.

Thoughts of Sherlock led her to remember that he was planning to visit her at Barts sometime that day. Knowing she wouldn't be able to hide anything from him, she thought it best to delay seeing him until she knew something more. She texted him.

 _Don't come in. Was just sick. Leaving soon._

Molly decided she'd best confirm her suspicions before she let her thoughts run away from her. Grabbing her coat, she headed to Boots just down the road from the hospital.

As she walked, she let herself imagine just what life would be like if her test was positive. She could picture Sherlock, ever the keen researcher, stockpiling pregnancy books all around the lounge room in Baker Street. Would he make her read them, too? Or, would he just regale her with the parts he found most interesting –

"Molly, did you know that most women develop changes in their skin pigmentation while pregnant?"

"Molly, do you realise that your vaginal discharge will increase?"

"Molly, technically, as you're over 35, this pregnancy is termed a 'geriatric pregnancy'"

"Molly, you know you're at a higher risk of developing De Quervain's tenosynovitis…"

Would he treat her body like a science experiment – checking for changes and writing up his observations? Or would he be disgusted by her – riddled with stretch marks and cursed with haemorrhoids, knowing her rotten luck. Or, would he take advantage of the increase in her libido – not that she could imagine it would even be possible for the two of them to have sex more often than they already did.

And when the baby came, what then? Would they stay at Baker Street? She couldn't imagine Sherlock ever leaving the place – it had become as much a part of his identity as his Belstaff Coat or his slightly-too-long hair.

And what kind of father would Sherlock be – if he wanted to be a father at all? For some reason, she couldn't picturing him taking the baby to a crime scene. But then again, maybe Sherlock would see a gruesome murder as the perfect excuse for a father/baby outing.

And what of the baby itself? (Himself? Herself?). How could she picture something that was only a mere possibility? How could she imagine the child she would hold one day when right now it was only a microscopic collection of cells? How miraculous the journey of life truly seemed now that it was taking place inside of her.

Might be taking place inside of her – she corrected as she walked through the aisles of Boots, looking for the test that would turn this mere possibility into a reality.

She grabbed the test, reading the back of the instructions for a moment, before paying, leaving and walking back to Barts as quickly as she could.

As she found herself on the cusp of parenthood, she couldn't help thinking of her own parents. Molly's mother died when she was almost three, so most of her memories were based on photographs and stories and one cassette recording of her mother's voice. Matthew, Molly's older brother had been given a tape recorder for his sixth birthday, and he spent the next few months recording songs and skits and anything he could think of. Most of the tapes ran with the nonsensical logic that only a creative young boy could have, but one tape was different. It was the first recording he had made and instead of creating content, he began by interviewing those present at his birthday party.

The only memory Molly had of her mother's voice came from that tape. Many years later, Molly would lie in her bed at night and listen to her mother describe her preparations for Matthew's party. She spoke with passion of simple things like baking the cake, preparing the party favours, cleaning the house. At the end of the recording, she began to get distracted by the babbling sounds of a two year old Molly, just woken from her nap. With the player at full volume, Molly could just make out her mother saying "it's ok my precious baby girl" before the recording cut off.

Molly's mother wasn't there to celebrate Matthew's seventh birthday. The brain tumour discovered too late and grew too aggressively. Molly's first ever memory was of a nondescript hospital corridor and her mother wheeled on a hospital gurney into what Molly later realised was the operating theatre where she died.

Growing up, with her brother and her father overcome by their grief, Molly's mother became a taboo topic in their household. In a stoicism meant to protect Molly, two men in her family never grieved the loss themselves.

Molly grieved the fact that she wasn't allowed to grieve at all.

And now she faced motherhood herself.

Or did she?

Molly stood in a toilet cubicle on Bart's basement level with the pregnancy test in her hands. She attempted to read the instructions, but she couldn't process the words. She cursed herself, she was a pathologist – how hard could it be?

She took the test. The two lines of the positive test sealed her fate. Their fate.

Molly's hand shook so much the test fell out and on to the floor. She picked it up and dumped it in the bin.

Hands still shaking, nausea rising as it had earlier that morning, head ringing from her still-persistent headache, and feeling more and more light headed, Molly stumbled her way into her office before almost collapsing in her chair.

Molly's mind was blank. She wasn't worried. She wasn't excited. She wasn't happy or sad.

She didn't know what she was – or what to do.

Molly didn't realise she'd been crying until Mike woke past – stopping at once when he saw the look on her face.

"What's wrong, Molly?"

"I – um…" Where could she possibly start?

Mike's round face filled with concern. "Is there anything I can do?"

Ever the pathologist, Molly found herself clinging to the only thing she knew she could rely on. Science.

"I need you to run a blood test."

"On who?"

"On me."


	3. Chapter 3

Thanks to all who have commented and favourited this story. It's really encouraging!

* * *

To the outside observer, it would have appeared as if Sherlock had spent several hours in a catatonic state after deducing that Molly was pregnant.

He sat unmoving in John's chair. Sherlock had chosen it only because it was the closest, not because of any link between his friend's paternal achievements and his own impending fatherhood. At least, not consciously.

Sherlock sat still and turned to his mind-palace.

In the depths of his mind, far away from the chaos which plagued his every conscious thought, was a space he would retreat to when he needed peace. It was the perfect recreation of his favourite place as a child. It was in corner of the back garden, hidden by overgrown shrubbery, and only discovered because he'd thrown a ball for Redbeard too far and it had rolled behind some bushes. When Sherlock went to retrieve it, he pushed the branches aside to find a garden bench what had been made out of an old railway sleeper and a couple of piles of rocks. Sherlock never worked out if the rocks had been placed by hand or by some natural occurrence. It didn't matter. Sitting there, hidden by the bushes, the ten-year-old Sherlock and his precious dog Redbeard were alone in the world. At peace.

As he recreated the space in his mind palace twenty five years later, Sherlock felt Redbeard's fur beneath his fingers.

He sat and thought.

He thought of the day Redbeard came into his life. He had skipped out early from school, which was nothing out of the ordinary for him. In fact, he probably did it at least once a week. Even at the age of ten, he was a keen enough observer to note which teachers would compare their class rolls with the school's official record.

There was Mrs Fisher, the art teacher, who abused pain medication to "inspire" her work (and to numb the pain of her recent divorce). It was enough for her to remember what she should be teaching – there was slim-to-no chance that she would observe who it was she was teaching it to. Ms. Burke, the athletics instructor, was so busy flirting with Johnson, the recently employed greens-keeper, that she didn't care if her students came back from their cross-country runs or not. Then there was Mr Barnes, a man so old and infirm that every day the man turned up to school alive was a day more than his life-expectancy (or so Sherlock thought. It later turned out that Barnes had another fifteen years of teaching in him, to the surprise of everyone, including himself).

All Sherlock needed to do was word up Victor Trevor, his only friend and confidant, to cover for him and the various failures of those three teachers would take care of the rest.

And so, on the day he met Redbeard, Sherlock was walking home at Midday, taking quiet lanes and cutting through back gardens to avoid being seen. He was on his way through the McKenzie's property when he heard it. Coming from the back shed was an unmistakable sound: the small, almost pitiful yelp of a small animal. Driven by curiosity and uncaring of trespass laws, Sherlock opened the shed and peered inside. Curled up in the corner was an impossibly small creature with flame-coloured fur and ears almost bigger than the rest of him.

The puppy continued whimpering as Sherlock walked over to him. As Sherlock got closer, the tiny head shot up in curiosity rather than fear. Sherlock reached out to comfort the small animal, and was met with the fervent licks of a small yet slobbery tongue.

Sherlock laughed at the tickling sensation. Sherlock never laughed.

He didn't know how long he'd been sitting by the puppy's bed when he heard his neighbour's voice.

"His mother died last night," Mrs McKenzie informed him.

"Oh – um…" Caught red-handed skipping school and trespassing, Sherlock didn't know what to say to the grey-haired old woman.

"He likes you." She said, gesturing to the puppy.

"Does he have a name?" Sherlock asked.

"If he were yours, what would you call him?"

Sherlock had recently been practicing his French by reading a series of Belgian pirate comics he found in the attic, left over from when his father was a boy. The pirate's beard was the same colour as the puppy's fur.

"Redbeard."

The old lady smiled. "Redbeard?" She tested. "Sounds good." She picked up the puppy and handed him to Sherlock. Sherlock held the animal with unpractised hands, afraid that he might break it.

"He's yours." She said. And left.

When Sherlock walked through the door holding his new best friend, his mother said nothing, merely cocking an eyebrow. Later that night, his father gave him a few tips on puppy-raising and informed him that the rest was up to him.

The only member of the Holmes household who had any complaints about their newest addition was Mycroft.

"What on earth were you thinking, little brother?"

"I didn't mean to."

"Yes you did. You must have gotten attached. There's no way Mrs McKenzie would give the dog away to any small boy."

"He was lonely."

"And I suppose you sensed a kindred spirit?"

Sherlock shrugged.

"What have I told you, little brother? Loneliness is a choice. Look at me, I'm not lonely."

"How would you know?"

"Caring is not an advantage. If you care for anyone or anything, you're only hurting yourself. All lives end. All hearts are broken."

"You're wrong."

But of course, Mycroft was right – and Sherlock hated him for it.

For years, Sherlock and Redbeard were almost inseparable. Even when Sherlock went to school Redbeard would wait at the front gate, watching out for his return every afternoon.

But one afternoon, he wasn't there.

That night, while Sherlock cried for what would be the last time for almost two decades, Mycroft stood at the door to his bedroom. He couldn't hide the smugness from his voice when he said, "I told you, brother mine. All lives end."

Sherlock stood, walked over to the door, stared calmly in his brother's smug face, and slammed the door on it.

Caring for Redbeard had cost him, deeply. In fact, with Mycroft's words ringing in his ears, Sherlock avoided all human relationships for the next sixteen years.

Until he met John.

And now it was the memory of the pain he felt when he lost Redbeard that woke him up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, haunted by the shadow of forgotten dreams. Dreams of violence and blood. Dreams where he would scream but his voice would fail him. Dreams where Molly was hurt – or taken – or somehow just out of his reach.

Losing Redbeard nearly destroyed him. He had no idea what would happen if he lost Molly.

He'd already come too close to finding out. He'll never forget the white-hot panic he felt in the hours after Moriarty's broadcast. Disembarking the plain, Sherlock's first words to his brother weren't of thanks, or of a plan to peruse Moriarty, or even an expression of shock about how he did it. His first words were about her.

"Do you have her?" He asked, receiving a raised hand in response as Mycroft listened to the voice on the other end of the line.

Exasperated, Sherlock turned to John and Mary. All thoughts of their final farewell only minutes ago were forgotten. "John, does Mycroft have her?"

In his inimitable calming tone, John gave Sherlock the facts. "Mycroft's people have Lestrade and Mrs Hudson. They're safe."

"And Molly?"

"We seem to have lost her," came Mycroft's ominous voice as he hung up the phone.

"How could you lose her? I thought you had her under 24-hour surveillance?"

"I do – just as I do for all of your _assets_."

"Then where is she, brother?"

Hours later, after searching Molly's house, office and Bart's lab for clues Sherlock received a text.

 _Come and play. You know where._

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the sheer laziness of Moriary's repetition. It would be almost the same scene as they'd shared four years ago – except the snipers were Sherlock's. Mary and John were camped out on the two different roofs, their sights trained on Moriarty. Also different, Molly wouldn't be there to catch him if he fell – she was the one poised for a fall herself.

Moriarty sat next to her on the roof's edge, the very same edge Sherlock had jumped off years earlier. Moriarty's arm was around her, he leaned in to her. Anyone watching could mistake them for lovers.

But they were lovers – once.

Sherlock couldn't hear what Moriarty was saying, but the look of disgust on Molly's face was all he needed to know it wasn't sweet nothings.

Moriarty didn't look up as Sherlock approached. Eyes still peering into Molly's, he said to Sherlock, "Did you like my message?"

Sherlock rounded on them, trying to calculate the best position should it come to a fight between himself and the diminutive Irishman. He kept his voice calm as he spoke, "A bit too cute for my liking."

Moriarty smiled. "Tell him," he said to Molly. She hesitated. "Tell him," he repeated, yelling this time.

"Jim – he used to ask me that. When he would – when we were –"

"When I was fucking her to get to you." Moriarty finished, exasperated. Sherlock tried not to blanch. He failed. Moriarty continued, "'Did you miss me' was something I used to say to her when I was Jim from IT. Remember Jim?" He asked Molly, "He was so lovable and cute and would go down on you until you screamed." Moriarty's hold on Molly's neck tightened. "She's a screamer, you know, Sherlock?"

Moriarty moved to kiss her. Molly spat in his face. While he was distracted wiping his face, Molly reached into her bra, removed a hidden scalpel, and slashed Moriarty's neck.

Moriarty's eyes drew wide, his hand reaching for the deep gash. Knowing he had mere moments, Sherlock rushed to Molly, knocking her sidewards before John and Mary's bullets hit Moriarty in the head and chest.

After few moments there was silence.

Molly didn't look at Sherlock. Her eyes remained trained on Moriarty as if willing him to move, to cheat death again.

"I'll do the autopsy," she said in the cold, emotionless tone of someone unaware of the shock they were experiencing.

"Molly, I don't think that's a good idea."

Molly's eyes met his, full of determination. "I'll do the autopsy." She repeated, in a tone that made it clear there was no way to change her mind.

"Let the medics check you first."

Molly acquiesced. All that she needed was a small butterfly bandage over the cut in her temple, sustained when Sherlock nocked her to the ground. Within thirty minutes, Molly was in her morgue, looking the model of composure and control as she cut into the deceased body of Jim Moriarty.

She found two bullets, centre mass, right near the solar plexus and one bullet in the right temple – that was the one that killed him.

With the autopsy completed, Sherlock and Molly were certain that Jim Moriarty was dead.

The ordeal on Bart's roof was one which Molly not only survived, but amazingly, was even stronger for it. It made Sherlock certain that Molly Hooper was tough enough survive almost anything.

But it wasn't just Molly anymore, Sherlock reminded himself as he entered the room Molly occupied in his mind palace.

The room was infused with light, with walls clad with oddly un-matching wallpaper prints. A homage to her colourful clothing. It was the opposite of his Baker-Street bunker, but he loved it. Sometimes when he visited her there, she would simply smile, sit on his couch and play with his hair as he rested his head in her lap. Sometimes, especially when he had been working too hard or her shifts had been incomparable with his cases, she would re-enact, in exquisite detail, any one of a number of memories he held of their most intimate moments.

And, of course, there was the time when he needed her to break out of the confines of the box he'd locked her in and take over not only his mind, but his body as well – his memories of her saving him from the certain death of Mary's bullet.

Today, the Molly in his mind palace was altogether different. Her hair was much longer than he had ever seen it, cascading down her back like rivulets of pure silk. As she turned towards him, he could see what had caused her hair to grow so fast and glow so radiantly. There was no mistaking the swell of her belly beneath the empire-waist of her pink and white floral sundress.

That moment, he knew would never see anything more beautiful than Molly pregnant with his child. He ached to see it in reality, not in the construction of his imagination – which he knew would only ever be a poor facsimile.

Mycroft was right, caring was not an advantage. Loving Molly and having a child with her was likely to be the most dangerous thing he had ever done.

But he couldn't wait.

Sherlock had been in his mind palace for hours, ignoring the sounds of London life outside his loungeroom window. He'd also been unaware of any goings on inside his flat.

As he stood up, he saw a nondescript envelope lying near the door. Delivered, he suspected, while he was too lost in thought to observe anything. He hadn't heard anyone approach, or open the main door, or walk up the stairs. He hadn't heard the sound of the envelope as it slid in the gap under his door.

As he held the envelope in his hands, he had no way of knowing that what was inside had the power destroy any of the plans he had just that morning begun to make for his life with Molly, and the life of their unborn child.

His first guess was that it was from Mycroft, delivered by one of his minions – Anthea perhaps. Information about some kind of government coup in some backwater nation Mycroft would like him to stop – or ensure. But the envelope was too cheap for his brother. Mycroft only used the best quality stationery – this was standard, probably purchased at Tesco.

The first thing he saw when he opened the envelope was her face staring out of a black and white photograph of her. It had been taken from some distance with what he suspected was a very high-powered telephoto lens. She was wearing the same clothes she had on when she left the flat that morning, although her face was lined with telling concern. He knew what had caused those creases in her brow. He had the same ones himself.

She knew she was pregnant.

There was another photo. Molly entering Boots.

And another. Molly holding a pregnancy test packet.

And another. Molly intently reading the instructions.

And finally. Molly carrying the test back to Bart's.

The envelope contained more than just photos. Sherlock pulled out a small plastic bag and emptied its contents on the table.

A positive pregnancy test.

Sherlock felt sick – not only had someone been following Molly, but they had been close enough to her to know not only where she took the test, but where and when she discarded it.

The last thing Sherlock removed from the envelope was a pathology report. As if there was still any doubt, Mike Stamford had stated in the notes that the level of the pregnancy hormone HCG in Molly's blood was consistent with a pregnancy of 6-7 weeks gestation.

Molly was definitely pregnant. She knew it. Now he knew it.

But whoever sent Sherlock the package knew it as well.

"Who the fuck are you?" Sherlock asked into the chilling silence of his loungeroom.

As if by way of answering, the text alert on Sherlock's phone chimed. He read it.

 _Tate Modern. 5pm._

Sherlock had no idea who had sent the package, how they knew to follow Molly, or what they planned to do with the information. He hated not knowing.

Grabbing his Belstaff and scarf, Sherlock left Baker Street, hoping for answers – fast.

* * *

Thanks again for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: New Chapter! I'm realising how much this story is a slow-burn. Sorry! But there will be drama to come (in Chapter 5). Thanks for all who have read, favourited and reviewed. It's so wonderful to have encouragement on all of my fics!

* * *

Years later, in an idle moment while washing the dishes, Molly would find herself remembering one particular afternoon in vivid detail. As she submerged her hands in the slightly-too-hot water, she wondered if there was anything she could have done that day to change how things turned out. As she stood there, reflecting back on that pivotal day, the suds of the dishwashing detergent were transformed into the antibacterial wash in the lab at Bart's. She closed her eyes and could see Mike's face as he carried the printout of her blood test. His kindly smile told her the truth before he said a single word.

She didn't cry, but Mike could tell she wasn't entirely happy about the news.

"So I'm guessing it wasn't planned?"

Molly laughed the kind of laugh she often found herself making when she was on the edge of tears.

She shook her head. "No."

Mike gave her the rest of the afternoon off.

Molly stood outside Bart's with no idea about where to go and what to do. And it was this moment that years later she would revisit and wonder if she made the right choice that day.

She could have called Meena. Like Molly, Meena had recently found herself with an unplanned pregnancy. Unlike Molly, Meena had no idea who the father was - nor did she care to find out. In two months' time, Meena was going to meet her baby girl and begin the journey of parenthood alone.

Molly had already been amazed at how calm Meena had been since finding out her anonymous one-night-stand had turned into a life-altering event. But just that afternoon, Molly truly appreciated just how amazing Meena had been - especially now she found herself nearly hyperventilating at the thought of the child now growing inside of her.

She couldn't go to Meena's. Her anxiety would be magnified in the face of her friend's calm.

She could have gone straight home, surrounding herself with her favourite blanket, changing into her favourite yoga pants and consuming unseemly amounts of peanut butter choc chip ice cream.

Yes, home was a definite possibility. But there was a chance that Sherlock might be there. She had sent him the text to stay away from Bart's. What if he decided to come and find her? It wouldn't take much of his deductive powers to work out where she was.

As much as home was a place of comfort, what she did know was that she couldn't risk seeing Sherlock. Not yet. She wasn't ready.

Molly walked, not paying attention to where she was going. There was so much for her to process that all thoughts of her physical presence were lost to her until she realised that she'd only walked as far as Duke's Garden – just a few minutes' walk from Bart's.

Molly would often take her lunchbreaks there on a sunny day. She knew that it was often filled visited by mothers and babies after their postnatal check-ups at the hospital. Knowing now that motherhood was in her near future, Molly decided for once to pay attention to the contents of the prams as she passed. With no cousins and an unmarried older brother, Molly had never had much experience with babies. Of course, she had seen Joanna Watson grow over the last eighteen months, but she had never even asked Mary if she could so much as hold her.

Molly wasn't sure why.

As a child she was never the kind of girl who played with dolls. Her friends would dote on their plastic and fabric motherhood-training-devices, while Molly would always cast herself in the role of the doctor. She would gladly spend hours mending pretend scrapes to the knee, treating made-up illnesses, and performing pantomime surgeries.

The only Barbie doll she ever owned was one which came with two clothing options: glamourous evening gown or doctor's coat (worn over an impractical slip dress, accompanied by ridiculous high heels). She could even remember the commercial – caring doctor by day, ready for a date with Ken that night.

Molly's Barbie doll never went on dates. Somewhat prophetic, perhaps.

But Molly wasn't alone anymore. Somehow she was in a functioning relationship with a man who claimed to be a high-functioning sociopath.

Molly remembered clearly the panic she felt after that first morning together - after he'd invited himself to her house under the pretence of her cooking him breakfast and he pinned her against the cupboard, making it clear that food wasn't his desire at all. She woke up in the early afternoon, still naked and with the pleasant ache that could only come from multiple consecutive bouts of lovemaking. Three, or three and a half, she remembered with a smirk. Sherlock was still asleep, covered with more than his fair share of blankets, she noted. For a man who hadn't shared his bed in over a decade – except for a few chaste nights with Janine – there was a lot he would need to learn about co-sleeping etiquette, Molly thought.

He lay on his back, one arm stretched above his head, while the other reached out towards her, a subconscious gesture, she presumed. She had seen him asleep before. Sherlock had spent more than a few nights on her lounge when he had decided that it was easier to crash at her flat than take a cab back to Baker Street. But this was different. Here, in her bed, Sherlock was at his most unguarded. His face wore none of the intensity he carried with him at all times when he was awake. Looking at him asleep, could almost convince herself that he was just like any other man she'd ever taken to bed –

– but she knew that when he awoke there'd be no hiding the fact that he was Sherlock Holmes and for some reason he had decided that morning to break a decade of celibacy with her.

Why?

What had happened in that mysterious mind of his to make him aware not only of his desire for her, but to act on it?

Was it a one-time thing? Would he wake up and act like nothing had happened? And if it was, how did she feel about that?

"I can hear you thinking," Sherlock said, giving no indication of how long he'd been awake for. His voice was hoarse from rest and he hadn't opened his eyes.

"Sorry." Molly didn't know what else to say. Suddenly, her nakedness felt all too-naked, and she moved to stand and grab a t-shirt.

Sherlock grabbed her by the wrist.

"Where are you going?"

"I, um, clothes," she gestured to her dresser drawers, "and maybe food? I could make you breakfast. Or maybe that should be lunch? Or an early dinner? Or we could order in? There's a really good Indian-"

Sherlock silenced her with his lips on hers. "Stop talking Molly." He said, then continued kissing her, rolling her back onto the bed and manoeuvring himself she was trapped between his body above and the mattress below.

Part of her wanted to ask him all of the questions that had been troubling her since she woke up. Part of her wanted him to tell her what he was thinking. Part of her wanted to treat him like any other man she'd slept with more than three times and have "the talk".

But part of her didn't want those things at all, didn't care what the answers were, especially while Sherlock lay on top of her and made it clear that he was by no means spent from their morning activities.

They never did have "the talk", at no point did Sherlock declare that he was Molly's boyfriend, nor did Molly ever feel compelled to ask if she was his girlfriend.

She did, however, find out what Sherlock had been thinking that morning in her kitchen when he kissed her. The admission came at the most improbable of times – as they were walking through in the cleaning aisle at Tesco while on the hunt for a midnight snack after a long day at Bart's.

Sherlock paused in front of the brightly-coloured boxes of laundry detergent. It took Molly a moment to realise that he wasn't by her side. When she turned back to him, she saw he had picked up one and was studying the label intensely.

"Good read is it?" She asked.

"…for tough stains, pre-soak with a stain removal product…" he mumbled to himself.

"That's garbage. They're just trying to sell useless add-ons."

"Oh?"

"Definitely. The only thing you need to get blood out of clothing is a splash of white vinegar – or Coca-Cola will do if there's no vinegar handy."

"How do you-" he stopped. They both shared a look, and a moment's painful memory of the day on Bart's roof when Moriarty had returned.

Sherlock returned the washing powder to the shelf. Molly thought he needed a moment away from the concern written on her face. "I could have lost you," he said.

Molly reached out for his hand, holding it between both of hers. "You didn't."

He pulled her into his embrace. "I'll do anything to protect you," he said with lips pressed on the top of her head. He pulled away, leaning down to place a chaste kiss on her cheek, an echo of kisses from their life past. "You make me whole, Molly Hooper." He said, and she couldn't stop the lone tear from revealing to him how much his words mattered.

As she sat in Duke's garden, paralysed from the revelation of the day and the news of the life that had begun inside of her, Molly wondered: if she had made him whole, was he complete? Or would their child complete the impossible puzzle that was Sherlock Holmes?

There were two people in the world who knew Sherlock as well as Molly did – often better, when she reflected on the insights John had revealed about Sherlock in his blog. Molly decided that if she needed advice, she'd have to go and see the Watsons.

Mary greeted Molly warmly, as she always did, ushered her inside and put on the kettle for tea.

Molly sat at the kitchen bench and felt relaxed for the first time since Mike gave her the pathology results. She was glad to have a friend she could rely on not only in the midst of any of the insane situations she had found herself in over the last few years, but someone who also had a high tolerance of Sherlock.

The kettle boiled and tea was served. Molly wrapped her hands around the teacup, the warmth soothing her as the scent of the peppermint tea floated up with the steam. She hoped Mary wouldn't notice the tremor in her fingers as she lifted the teacup to her lips.

She had no idea where to start – but the words formed themselves on her lips. "Mary, how did you tell John you were pregnant?"

Mary smiled widely. "Haven't we ever told you the story?"

"No."

"Well," Mary began, "I didn't tell John. Sherlock told us both. He deduced it on our wedding day."

Molly's face fell. She had hoped for a happy conversation, a way to ease herself into telling Mary the news. It wasn't to be.

A keen observer of people, Mary knew something was up straight away. "What is it?" She asked.

"It's just - Sherlock - I have no idea how to tell him." Molly didn't have to explain. She could see on her face that Mary knew exactly what she meant.

"Oh honey." Mary pulled her on to a hug.

"Mary," Molly said between sobs, "How on earth am I going to tell Sherlock Holmes that he's going to be a father?"

What Molly didn't know was that John was standing behind her, his mouth now agape.

"Sherlock's going to be what?"


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N -** I've set myself a challenge in lieu of NaNoWriMo (as well as the fast approaching airdate of season 4) to post a chapter of a WiP or a short fic a day every day for the month of November (wish me luck!). This is the post for November 1.

Warning - here be angst!  
Enjoy!

* * *

 **Chapter 5**

Sherlock had been stalking the halls of the Tate Art Gallery for hours, eyes scanning images but unable to process anything he saw, so lost was he in trying to discern the identity of the person who was not only following Molly to work, but was paying enough attention to her so as to find out about her pregnancy on the very day she did.

Sherlock wondered what other information the mysterious foe had gathered on Molly – and for how long he had been doing so.

Bored with the modern audio-visual display of knee surgeries that filled every wall in the current hall he was in, Sherlock headed downstairs, settling on an exhibition was filled with pastel oil paintings, geometric patterns of concentric circles within circles with lines radiating out of the centre. He wasn't one for fine art, his brain didn't require extra stimulation, nor would the knowledge be helpful for many cases, but he did find the images calming in contrast to those that were sent to him this morning – the ones that would haunt him for years to come, becoming the most troubling set of images he had ever seen, more than any crime scene shots of corpses or dismemberbements or fly-infested torsos.

No, the images that would send Sherlock waking in a cold sweat in the years to come were the telephoto shots that came from someone stalking Molly into the drug store, someone watching her and keen to let him know that neither her nor their child was safe.

The threat against the child slowly growing inside Molly sent a white hot tingle of rage up Sherlock's spine to where it settled, a dull stabbing in the back of his head – in what he'd heard one of John's favourite American television shows refer to as the "lizard brain" – the part of the human mind untouched by millennia of evolution. Logically, it made sense to have this reaction – the most basic of human needs was to reproduce. But then again, what Sherlock felt that day as he paced through hall after hall past tourists and pensioners and children happy to be away from school on excursion was more than pure instinct.

It was love.

He loved his child already, couldn't wait to meet him – or her. Wanted to see if they inherited all Molly's kindness and strength – and none of his mild-autistic traits and misanthrope. He knew he wouldn't be the typical father – he could never promise to keep a 9 to 5 job – but he would do anything to keep the child, and their mother, happy, loved, and safe.

And whomever sent that package knew it.

Sherlock turned a corner and entered into a room in which an oversized spider had been hung from the roof, its eyes and pincers meeting him in the face. Sherlock looked down to see a series of webs being projected onto the wall, floor and ceiling.  
It seemed like he was meant to be the prey.

Some comment on politics, he guessed. Or taxes.

Sherlock took a step back to walk around the spider, accidentally bumping into a short man wearing a grey hat over his strawberry blonde hair.

"Excuse me," Sherlock mumbled.

"Not at all," the man supplied.

Sherlock was about to turn and leave the room when the man grabbed him by the arm.

"They're beautiful, aren't they?"

Sherlock looked down to where the man's small hand clutched his bicep strong enough to pinch through the thick layers of his Belstaff coat. The man removed his hand, took a step back, and surveyed the spider in front of them.

"Such gorgeous creatures," he said, his eyes never moving from the oversized, yet oddly lifelike, spider before them. "Some paleo-insectologists posit the existence of a spider whose destructive power lay not in its venom or its web, but in its ability to paralyse their victim with their song. Even though completely alive, their prey, once caught, retained all feeling yet was unable to act. All they could do was listen to the tune while their lives slowly ended."

Sherlock knew he should be afraid, should have some kind of reverence for the man who had shook him to the core. But instead, his first reaction was his usual – to be a smart arse.

"Fascinating as your insectology lecture is, I'd really rather know your name before you bore me to death."

The man didn't break focus, eyes fixed ahead, as if trying to become one with the spider in front of him. Sherlock yawned for effect and the man turned, his eyes boring into Sherlock's with the same intensity.

"I'm your spider, Mr Holmes. I'm going to sing you a tune and even though you will live, you will be paralysed, and I'll have you in my web for as long as I want to."  
Sherlock stifled a laugh. "Spider? That's a good one. I've heard many criminal metaphors, but this one is a good one."

"You really shouldn't laugh, Mr Holmes. We know you weren't laughing this morning when you saw our little present."

Sherlock's jaw clenched.

The man continued, "you've been wondering how we knew, how we got to her, haven't you?"

Sherlock couldn't hide his desire for knowledge, not just for knowledge's sake, but so he could protect her – or, more accurately, storm into Mycroft's office and make sure he marshals all of the resources of Mi5 to protect her.

"Tell me," Sherlock demanded.

The man grinned, revealing crooked teeth and cold mirthless eyes. He leaned in, whispering into Sherlock's ear, "we own everyone."

Sherlock leaned away, rolling his eyes. "Do you know how many times I've met with a master criminal and had them tell me that they own everyone, or they have people everywhere? It's a bloody cliché with you people."

"I can give you proof."

Smith reached into his pocked and pulled out a phone. With a few taps, he handed it to Sherlock as a video file began to play.

The person on the screen was someone he'd met a few times, but someone he knew was close to Molly. It was her friend, Meena. Sherlock could tell from the angle and the shaking of the image that she had recorded it herself. A date had been superimposed on the image – 7 weeks ago.

"Just letting you know that Molly come over for a girls' night while Sherlock was away. Didn't learn much – other than how often they're fucking – but I guess you don't need that. Did notice she changed her tampax while she was here, thought you'd need that information…"

The video abruptly changed to a shot of another person – a young man, early twenties, with ginger hair and glasses. Sherlock had to scan his memory to place the face, before realising it was the newest intern at Bart's. The video was dated from that morning.

"Hi – Dr Hooper has just rushed out of the lab. I followed at a distance and heard what sounded like vomiting coming from the ladies…"

The video shifted again. This time it was a doctor in his consulting rooms, but Sherlock had never seen him before. He was in his late 30s, blonde, moderately attractive, but not too aware of it to be unlikable. The date and time stamp revealed it was 20 minutes ago.

"Hello. I just received an appointment from Ms. Molly J. Hooper, NHS number 342543. She has scheduled a prenatal screening and estimates she is around 7 weeks along. She didn't provide any information about the father. The appointment is a week from Tuesday. I will send you the records after."

The Spider was bloody right. They did have everyone. Sherlock felt all colour drain from his face. IF they could get to Molly's doctor, could get to any employee at Bart's, could get to Molly's best friend –

Getting to Molly, getting to their child, would be nothing to them.

"How?" The words caught in Sherlock's throat, "How can you do that?"

The Spider smiled as he retrieved his phone from Sherlock's limp hands. "Welcome to crime 2.0 – we crowdsource now."

It all became clear to Sherlock, "Everyone has their price."

The Spider nodded – "Price – pressure point – pleasure that can't be gotten through legal avenues. We cover it all, and all from the safety of an encrypted iphone," he tapped the phone in his pocket.

"And who exactly are 'We'?"

The Spider made a tutting noise, "Needs must – Sherlock. And right now, you need to hear the rest of my song."

The Spider ushered him out of the room into common the vestibule area where children were lining up for busses and tourists were buying useless trinkets from the gift shop.  
He motioned for Sherlock to sit on an ottoman, and joined him.

"Imagine, Sherlock, if we know from Molly's neighbour the precise date and-" he reached in his pocket, retrieved his phone and scrolled back a list of information check something, "-yes, oh look! We even know the time of day you two first – how to put this delicately – began your relationship," he leaned in and whispered, "right down to minute of the very first orgasm you gave her. She really is a screamer, isn't she? Mrs Jones from upstairs thinks so." All pretence of delicateness abandoned, it seemed. "Don't you think there's nothing we can't know – and nothing we can't do?"

Sherlock closed his eyes, calling on the one name he hated to, but knew he always could when things went beyond his (substantial) capabilities.

"Mycroft."

The Spider laughed, tapped a few buttons, and handed Sherlock the phone again.

He expected one of Mycroft's low-level aids to appear, or maybe, at worse, Anthea, his assistant.

He never expected to see the face of Mycroft himself.

His brother looked downtrodden, like he had been bested. He also looked more perturbed than usual, and that was saying something for a man whose neutral state was annoyed disappointment.

"I concur with your findings that there is nothing I will be able to do once you decide to move forward with your plan for my brother, Sherlock Holmes." Mycroft paused, looking at something outside of the frame for a moment, before continuing, "Just – make sure he knows I've done what I've done for King and Country."

That was it then. Nowhere to turn, nothing to do. Noone could protect him, and anyone, it seemed could get to Molly and their child at the swipe of a phone or at the sending of a text.

Backed into a corner, Sherlock had no other choice.

"What do you need from me?" he asked.

The Spider giggled, his hands covering his face. "You don't know how long I've waited for this moment," he said, his smile beaming.

"Then put an end to my misery," Sherlock asked, and in many ways he meant it.

"No, Mr Holmes," The Spider stood, and began to walk away. He stopped, turning back to add, "your misery is just about to begin."

What Sherlock didn't know that afternoon was that the Spider was wrong. As horrible as all that faced him would be, Sherlock wouldn't face true misery until one day, almost 20 years to the date after that afternoon when he first met The Spider at the Tate Modern.


End file.
